


Let Me Steal a Heart For You

by restless (cabinfever)



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, Alternate Universe - Robots & Androids, M/M, Permanent Injury, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prosthesis, Robots, Suicide, Veterans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-29
Updated: 2013-09-29
Packaged: 2017-12-27 22:16:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/984235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cabinfever/pseuds/restless
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Could you ever be in love?”<br/>“No.” L1-AM shook his head. “No, I couldn’t. I never will.”</p><p>A story about a war veteran and his robot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let Me Steal a Heart For You

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, this is going to seem very confusing. A lot of the Ziam is implied, since the story is told in chunks of moments and not a continuous story. Pardon the time jumps. :)

They say it’s absurd. Why would Zayn Malik, hero of the Fourth World War, need an ARC-Bot?

They don’t believe their friends, wave them off; say that they must’ve mistaken the man on the street for someone else.

But then they go for a walk around London – rare, seeing that that very few actually walk since the creation of the MobileGo – and they see the man for themselves, with that lifelike figure striding smoothly along beside him (and they're hand in hand, but nobody dares to mention that). And then they believe.

They sigh, disappointed.

Maybe he isn’t such a hero after all.

*          *          *

Zayn had refused a total of 54 times before Louis finally cracked him. A demon, that man was, devilish in his manipulations.

He’d called it an ARC-Bot, short for Assisted Rehabilitation and Care. Zayn still had told his brother that he could take his ARC-Bot and shove it up his ass, but still he persisted.

The next time Louis came around, he had the nerve to use Harry as leverage. Harry, the wild haired young man who made Louis docile; Harry, the boy with the wide green eyes that had seen too much war; Harry, Zayn’s comrade until he’d tried too hard to help and ended up losing his right arm to shrapnel. He had an ARC-Bot of his own: N1-A11, they called him. It was the serial number or call number or something. Zayn couldn’t be bothered to remember.

Zayn had been grudgingly impressed with the craftsmanship of the model – “ _Every single one of them is custom made and one-of-a-kind_ ,” Louis had boasted – and had to admit that it wasn’t disconcertingly inhuman like the MED-Bots back in the sun-scorched warzone. With shining blonde hair, synthetic polymer skin covered what were surely bones of alloy and glass, set with a pair of sky-blue eyes that looked so close to being human, but had an electronic vacancy that Zayn’s couldn’t unsee, N1-A11 was so close to being a human, alive in every way except for its artificial organs and complete lack of feeling.

Sure, he – could Zayn call a robot a he? – was able to joke and talk in an almost endearing Irish accent, but whenever Zayn met its – his eyes, there was no expression, just wires. But everything else was perfect. N1-A11 was wired for humor and for comfort, knew everything that would be necessary in caring for an army veteran with PTSD and beyond that, and the way that he was so attuned to Harry’s moods was, quite frankly, extraordinary.

That was what really had made him change his mind, that fourth or fifth time that Louis came around with Harry and N1-A11. A door had slammed and both Harry and Zayn flinched, remembering grenades and guns and the shouts of the dying, and N1-A11 pulled Harry into a tight embrace, synthetic eyelids closed in human-like concentration while mechanical fingers massaged lightly at the head covered in curls, holding and rocking the man – no, boy – until his shaking subsided and he breathed normally again.

Zayn had wondered if he could have that, have the comfort of someone who wasn’t capable of judging you if you were weak.

“ _Fine_ ,” he’d amended, throwing hands up in reluctant defeat “ _You win, Lou. I’ll have a fucking ARC-Bot_.” And he’d gotten up from the couch and shuffled to his bedroom, wincing when the burning ache in his leg screamed in protest to the movement.

He hadn’t expected much, as an ARC-Bot like N1-A11 surely cost a fortune, but a week later when a suit-wearing man holding a large steel case bearing the name ‘ARC-Bot Elite’ showed up at the door of his apartment, Zayn knew Louis had gone all out. “Can I help you?” he asked, making it clear in his voice that he had no intention of helping anything.

The man lifted his chin, eyes examining Zayn head to toe with a clinical eye. “I am Simon Cowell from the Elite branch of the ARC-Bot series. You are Zayn Malik, correct?”

Zayn nodded warily. “Did Louis send you?”

“We received a call from a Louis Tomlinson asking for a custom order ARC-Bot to be built for you, yes.” Simon’s dark eyes were steady in their gaze. “I am going to need to come in and examine your living quarters and ask you some questions to be able to best create the ideal ARC-Bot for you.”

Zayn nodded and reluctantly pulled the door farther open, stepping aside to let the dark-haired man in. Simon headed immediately for the kitchen like he knew the place already, placed his shiny metal case on the clear glass tabletop, flicking the latches open to reveal an impressive set of manicured tools. He removed a black tape measure from the impressionable foam case, holding it up as he spun in an almost rehearsed motion on his heel, facing Zayn with a question forming on his lips. “I’m going to need you to escort me around the house so I can take necessary measurements.”

“Measurements?” Zayn asked dubiously.

Simon nodded, already heading to the kitchen counter to measure its height. He explained as he walked about, “We have to custom build the ARC-Bot to be able to best aid you in everyday life.”

Zayn rolled his eyes and led the man out into the living room, already regretting giving in to Louis’s persuasions. This ARC-Bot was turning out to be more trouble than it was worth.

It took longer than Zayn had wanted, full of tape measures and locating ‘potential hazards’ as Simon called them. “We need to locate any parts of the home that can be used by the client as a threat to their personal safety. It is the ARC-Bot’s responsibility to make sure that the client remains unharmed.”

“Reassuring,” Zayn snorted.

Simon seemed to sense the sarcasm in his voice, for his eyes took on an amused glint. He jotted down another note about the number of knives in the drawer, scrawling quickly but with uncannily perfect script. Zayn suspected that there were prosthetic parts in the hand to keep the hand in top form as Simon’s body aged. It wasn’t uncommon in society, so Zayn wouldn’t put it past him, especially given the fact that he worked for the most prestigious robotics magnate in the world. “You’re not making the process any easier by groaning about it.”

Zayn raised an eyebrow. “I’m just showing you my sparkling personality,” he replied dryly.

“Speaking of,” Simon began, flipping to a new page in his clipboard, this one with blank lines and questions printed across it.

“Don’t tell me,” Zayn groaned, flopping into one of the kitchen chairs. “I have to–”

“-tell me more about your sparkling personality, yes.” Simon looked determinedly interested, examining Zayn like a predator would assess prey. “This is one of the most extensive parts of the process.”

Zayn sighed and made himself comfortable, thankful that he’d gotten cushions on the kitchen chairs rather than the ridiculous sleek models that Louis had wanted him to get. “Let’s get on with it, then,” he sighed.

Simon clicked his pen into position, holding it aloft above the paper. He tapped the first question. “Tell me, Mr. Malik, what are your fears?”

Zayn swallowed. “Jumping right into it, are we?” he asked calmly, but inside his head was screaming _darkness alone PAIN death dark clowns guns people alone alone alone_

“We had to start somewhere,” Simon reasoned. “And let me assure you, Zayn, we will know if you are not being perfectly honest with us.”

“Fine,” the former soldier amended, shifting in his chair. “Let’s start with the dark.”

In the dark, Zayn was alone.

With people he was alone.

In death, he was alone.

He was alone.

*          *          *

“Well, Mr. Malik, that seems to be the extent of the preliminary questions,” Simon told him, clicking his pen closed and setting it at the top of his clipboard. “You’ve been very cooperative.”

“The questions were…in depth,” Zayn commented, scowling.

Simon shrugged. “It’s the only way.” He placed his clipboard into his briefcase, drawing out brightly colored pamphlets in exchange. He held them out to Zayn. “Here’s your information. It’s all that you need to know.”

“How do they work, the ARC-Bots?” Zayn asked, skeptical. “Why are they so awesome in society anyway?”

Simon’s face was smug, and his chest puffed with barely concealed pride. “ARC-Bots, Mr. Malik, are specially engineered to respond to environmental stimuli as any human would.”

Zayn studied the pictures in the sheaf of papers he’d been given, seeing descriptions of all of the superhuman abilities that were granted to ARC-Bots. He saw ‘medicinal administration’ and ‘driven to their tasks’ written in the lines that went by in blurs. He looked up at Simon’s face. “Do they feel?” he asked absently, the question springing to his lips uncontrolled.

 A silence.

He looked up. Simon looked uncomfortable. “Do they feel?” Zayn asked again, slower this time. “Can they feel like we do?”

Simon’s lips pressed together. “They do respond to certain physical and behavioral stimuli, but emotional capabilities are beyond them.”

Zayn nodded. “I see.” He flipped a bit more through the pamphlets, deciding to look at them later for future reference. Or not. Probably the latter. “Where do I sign?”

*          *          *

The box arrived after three weeks.

Three agonizing weeks that, despite Zayn’s every effort to convince himself that it wasn’t true, had been full of nervous anticipation. What could he expect of such a thing that had been tailor-made for him and him alone? Another N1-A11?

The box was massive, just about six feet tall and as wide as a small bed. Briefly, Zayn was reminded of the look of a coffin. Only this time, the box would bring someone – or something – to life.

It was with a kitchen knife that he finally sliced through the clear tape that bound the edges of the silver box. He grumbled to himself as he did it. With all the new technology in the world after three generations, was it really so hard to find an adhesive connector that wasn’t a pain in the ass to unwrap?

The flaps of the box were quickly lifted, and Zayn was met with a layer of black insulation gel and a small envelope of fine paper. Zayn lifted the stationery from the gel, snorting at the sheer overkill with this ARC-Bot company. He’d expected a bit of the usual showing off, but to put the instruction manual in a pretty piece of folded paper was a bit much. Chuckling softly, he slipped the paper from the envelope.

 

**Technical Specifications:**

Identification Code: L1-AM

Answers to: L1-AM, Liam

Place of Manufacture: London, England

Hair Color: Brown

Eye Color: Brown

**Your L1-AM unit comes with the following:**

Three (3) plaid button-down shirts (red, blue, and gray)

One (1) pair of black Converse sneakers

One (1) pair of Vans sneakers

Two (2) pairs of black jeans

One (1) pair of black suit pants

One (1) pair of dress shoes

One (1) black suit jacket

Three (3) dress shirts (white, blue, gold)

Ten (10) pairs of socks

**Programming**

Your L1-AM unit comes with the following traits:

  * Agreeability: The L1-AM unit does not easily argue with the customer, exempting times when the customer’s safety and/or health are in danger. This is a DEFAULT setting.
  * Cleanliness: The L1-AM unit is clean by nature and can be tasked with picking up the customer’s rooms and house. This is a DEFAULT setting.
  * Musical Inclination: The L1-AM unit, as per customer request, is musically inclined and has the ability to sing and play piano. It has a variety of songs in its databanks but can be programmed with new ones according to the customer’s desires. This is a PARTIALLY LOCKED setting that can be fully unlocked when the unit has access to a piano.
  * Body Alteration: The L1-AM unit, as per the customer’s request, will go out and get permanent tattoos on its skin alloy at random time increments. If the end product is undesired, the unit can be taken to the ARC-Bot Elite maintenance office for skin repair. This is a LOCKED setting that can unlocked when the customer gives his/her approval of the action.



**Removal of your L1-AM unit from the packaging:**

Open the box and remove the protective insulation gel from the top of the L1-AM unit. The sides of the box must then be dismantled so that the L1-AM unit is able to maneuver once turned on. The unit is clothed in a pair of black pants, a red button down plaid shirt, and black Converse sneakers. The switch to activate the ARC-Bot is located at the back of the neck. If the L1-AM unit will not turn on, or for other maintenance inquiries, contact the ARC-Bot Elite maintenance office.

 

Zayn set the envelope down beside him on the floor, returning his attention to the box. The thick black gel was still covering the ARC-Bot. Despite its naturally light properties, the gel seemed to be impossibly hard to lift. It was the nerves, Zayn assured himself. Just nerves.

And then there it was.

It was exactly what Zayn had wanted, something he'd thought of in the heat of the moment; to be honest, he'd had no idea what he wanted in a robot that was meant to be human. His first idea had been to get an ARC-Bot that looked like Harry for the sake of familiarity, but with that would come the nightmares and constant reminders of what the ARC-Bot was meant to erase. Louis as a robot would be cold and unfamiliar.  For a little while, he had contemplated getting one with a stockier build and pale eyes like N1-A11. But the bright blonde hair and hauntingly empty blue-gray eyes of Harry's ARC-Bot reminded Zayn too much of a ghost, of something dead that had been beautifully reanimated. Instead, he'd headed for the polar opposite of his friend's artificial caretaker. On the survey for personal preferences for the ARC-Bot, Zayn had chosen warm colors and had requested all of the traits that he'd had before the war, before his injury; from before Zayn Malik was killed and replaced with a bitter husk.

There it was, the electronic wonder that looked shockingly human. Its eyes were closed as if in slumber, and full pink lips were held together loosely, like they were about to part to welcome a breath of air.

It was beautiful.

*          *          *

It took him all of five hours to decide to flip the switch.

The first hour was spent staring at the automaton in silence, wondering what it could do and if he was going to be alright with what he would get if he just turned the power on.

The second hour was passed by Zayn calling Louis, telling him about every detail of his new ARC-Bot and answering that no, he had not powered it up yet and yes, he did damn well intend to. Eventually, Louis’s pushiness grew to be too much and Zayn hung up on his brother, finishing out the remainder of the hour by inspecting the quality of the model.

He reached out, finger hovering above the silver switch that was just large enough for him to flip and just small enough that nothing would happen to it accidentally. The craftsmanship was genius.

But then he withdrew, though he’d been mere seconds away from flipping the switch.

He slept for the fourth hour.

He ate during the fifth, watching the prone body on the floor out of the corner of his eye. It was disconcerting, and Zayn had never enjoyed macaroni and cheese any less in his whole life. The entire time, it seemed like there was something he was doing wrong by just letting the thing lay there, like he had killed a man and was just leaving him there. But really, his only crime was not turning a device on.

It was weird how something that looked like a human was, in the plainest terms, a device.

And then there he was.

L1-AM. ARC-Bot extraordinaire.

He walked over to it and crouched beside the machine, reaching out to touch the synthetic skin. So real, it seemed; it seemed too real, like this was all a dream, a joke, or some sick hallucination. It wouldn’t be the first time.

But he put his finger on the switch regardless. He didn’t flip it just yet, though.

He couldn’t really understand why he wasn’t able to just do it, pull the figurative trigger and be done with it. The thought that he was seeing his new companion inanimate on the floor only further cemented the realization that the only thing that could bear to be with him was a robot.

“Fuck it,” he snarled, and he flipped the switch.

L1-AM opened his eyes.

Awake.

*          *          *

Power was a curious thing.

It could, alternatively, be called energy. It was life and it was ability and it was what made the world happen.

It could lie dormant, and it was potential. It could kill men and destroy worlds. And it could bring a machine to life.

L1-AM woke up.

He stood.

He looked at his charge. Pakistani descent, originally from Bradford, England. This was his charge for sure.

“I am L1-AM.” He introduced himself, his first words flowing from the synthetic voice box according to perfectly fine-tuned programming. Letter, number, letter, letter. El-one-ay-em.

The charge – Zayn Malik, 27 years old, honorary discharge from the British Army at 25 – watched him without a word. There was suspicion, L1-AM noticed. He was a guarded man.

He had been programmed to know this. After all, Zayn Malik, this charge that he’d been given, was ex-armed forces, filled with a distrust borne of the shrapnel that had torn up the muscles in his thigh and left him with injuries that could easily be remedied with prosthesis. But Zayn Malik had refused, probably because of fear. Or maybe it was because of that human emotion, pride.

“Liam,” Zayn repeated. “You’re Liam?”

L1-AM shook his head. “No, I am officially identified as L1-AM. However, if it pleases you, I will officially refer to myself as Liam.”

Zayn raised an eyebrow. “You ARC-Bots are fucking weird,” he told L1-AM. L1-AM took note of the fact that this Zayn used profanities. The information was stored in his databanks.

“What can I do to assist you today?” L1-AM asked obediently. “Is there anything that you need?”

Zayn looked surprised at L1-AM’s promptness. “No, not right now,” he answered warily. “You probably already know the layout of the house, so just hang out in the living room, I guess.”

 L1-AM tilted his head to the side. “Hang…out?”

“You don’t know what that means?” Zayn looked mildly amused. The corners of his lips twitched faintly.

“I don’t understand. Do you want me to hang from the ceiling in the living room? That does not seem like the most logical–”

“Liam,” Zayn interrupted, holding up his hand to stop L1-AM. “It’s a figure of speech. Just go sit on the couch or something.”

“Of course.” L1-AM nodded and went to the couch. He sat.

He waited.

That was his job.

*          *          *

Waking up was a complicated affair for Zayn now. He would get up with his alarm and would walk out of his room to see L1-AM already waiting patiently just outside. That was the cause of the event that he was sure had been some sort of regression to his war days, as he’d ended up tackling the ARC-Bot to the floor before L1-AM had managed to calm him down.

Then he’d sit down at the table with coffee and the newspaper already waiting for him, and he’d drink and read as L1-AM cooked him sausage and eggs.

It was beautifully domestic.

He hated it.

But Zayn was glad, sometimes, to have L1-AM.

When Zayn woke up every night, screaming into the blackness because all he could see was Harry’s face, Harry screaming and bloody and his leg fucking _hurt_ , there was just L1-AM, warm arms and soothing words that maybe weren’t really words but he didn’t care. He just cried into the soft cotton of the ARC-Bot’s shirt, head pressed against the almost-human chest, listening to gears faintly whirring.

Sometimes, when he is drifting to sleep, he can swear he hears a thump in the metal that makes up L1-AM. A small step, a faltering beat.

But then he’s asleep, and then time his mind is black.

*          *          *

"It's a veteran dinner. It's some award ceremony or something. Harry and I are getting medals, along with the rest of our unit." Zayn laughed humorlessly. "The ones that survived, at least." He shook the thought of his friends' last moments from his mind and glanced back to L1-AM. The ARC-Bot was sitting calmly in his usual spot, watching Zayn intently. “You need to wear a suit since you’re accompanying me.”

L1-AM nodded once. “Of course. I have a suit in my supplies. Should I retrieve and wear it now?”

Zayn waved his hand aimlessly, already unbuttoning his shirt on the way to his room. “Sure, yeah. As long as you’re ready by five.”

The ARC-Bot dipped his head in acknowledgement and strode off towards his own room. The door closed quietly behind him and for a moment, Zayn stood dumbly in the doorway of his room, looking at his closed door.

He went inside and changed slowly, pulling dress pants on gingerly over a deformed and aching leg.

By the time he got out of his room, hair teased to altitudes unheard of, L1-AM was standing patiently by the door.

He looked amazing.

“Are you ready to depart?” he asked innocently, as if he didn’t know how good the icy blue of his dress shirt looked with the warm (dead) brown of his eyes.

Zayn rubbed the bridge of his nose, already weary. “Yeah, Liam, let’s go.”

He would need a lot of alcohol to get through this one.

*          *          *

By the time they got back home, Zayn had had a bit more alcohol than necessary.

“You look good tonight,” Zayn breathed, staring at L1-AM. So human, so pretty. He knew he was at least semi-drunk, or else he wouldn’t be saying these things. But he knew that he was a truthful drunk. Besides, he’d already opened this can of worms, so he might as well roll with it.

L1-AM blinked at him – his eyes were so brown, so beautiful, so empty – and smiled. Blankly, of course. “Thank you, Zayn.”

Zayn pressed up against L1-AM. This was his chance. “I mean it, Liam,” he murmured, staring into the artificial eyes of the robot. “Are your lips soft?”

“By human standards, I supp–”

Zayn leaned in and pressed a long kiss to L1-AM’s so-real-but-so-fake lips, reveling in the warmth of them.

He pulled away.

L1-AM blinked again. “Thank you, Zayn.”

“Jesus Christ,” Zayn growled, and he turned away from the robot, rubbing his temples. Walking away, his slightly uncoordinated feet, hindered by alcohol, twisted and stumbled a bit, and his leg twisted, sending daggers of white-hot pain up his injured leg.

“Fuck!” he hissed, shutting his eyes as bright colors winked in his vision.

“Zayn!” Liam exclaimed, going to aid him.

“I don’t need your help, robot!” Zayn screamed, and he turned to leave, limping away and cursing. The agony in his leg burned like a bitch, aggravated by the fall.

“Zayn, I really don’t think that this is advisable–”

“Fuck off!” Zayn yelled, glaring back at the tall robot that stood still in the center of the living room, his arms limp by his sides. Waiting. Pathetic.

He stalked to the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. Pressing the button on the wall controls, he turned the shower on, limping towards it as he tore his shirt and pants from his body. The pain was crazing him.

Gingerly, he stepped into the shower, wincing and reveling in the biting heat of the water.

Zayn hissed under his breath, one curse and then another falling from his lips in rapid succession. He bent over under the spray of hot water, one hand bracing him on the wall of the shower while the other rubbed at his leg. The pain was back, shooting pains that went all up and down, firing at the nerves that still worked and hadn’t been crushed.

The leg suddenly collapsed under him and Zayn went down, crying out when the knee hit the bottom of the tub and everything in his vision turned red with agony.

“Liam!” he screamed before the blackness in his mind took over and he fell, finally unconscious, to the ground.

*          *          *

When Zayn came back from the hospital, he was sullen and quiet and sad. He wordlessly brushed past L1-AM and into the bathroom, and L1-AM followed him there, watching from the doorway as the cabinet behind the mirror was opened and all the muscle-building meds and painkillers were thrown out, thrown contemptuously into the garbage and replaced by a single white bottle on the shelf.

L1-AM reached past Zayn and picked up the vessel, turning it in his fingers until he saw the name. Autozol. It was designed for people with a prosthetic attachment. “You–”

Zayn wheeled on him, snatching the bottle back and placing it with furious force back in the cabinet. “Yes, Liam. I did. Now leave me the fuck alone.” He stalked out of the bathroom and into his room, slamming the door behind himself.

But not before L1-AM saw the glint of smooth chrome that gleamed from beneath Zayn’s pant leg.

He took note of it and left for the kitchen, getting the fixings for a sandwich. Zayn would be hungry when he emerged from the bedroom. While he spread butter onto the bread, he searched his databases for any information about the caretaking and maintenance of a prosthetic leg with the serial number that he’d seen.

He was ready to help.

“Zayn, I have food for you,” he called through Zayn’s door. “You should eat it.”

“Fuck off!” Zayn hissed back.

L1-AM set the plate on the floor. “Okay,” he replied, and he retreated to the couch. He sat down on the soft cushions, his back ramrod straight. He waited.

L1-AM checked the time; it had been two hours since Zayn had returned from the hospital and his charge was surely hungry.

Forty three minutes later, the door creaked open slowly, and Zayn’s hand snaked out to grab the plate. The arm vanished back into the room and the door creaked shut.

L1-AM smiled, pleased that Zayn was eating.

He was here to help.

*          *          *

Later, Zayn limped out of his room and sat beside L1-AM, staring straight ahead.

“Do you know how to work these?” he asked.

“Of course,” L1-AM answered. “Do you require assistance?”

Zayn grinned a bit, rolling up his pant leg to reveal the chrome attachment, all smooth curves and circuitry. “Could you…?”

“Of course,” the ARC-Bot replied swiftly. He made quick work of the prosthetic, detaching it from Zayn’s leg with practiced efficiency.

Zayn sighed in relief, massaging the stump where his leg had been. “Liam, I could kiss you,” he breathed.

“You can.”

Zayn smiled.

He did.

*          *          *

“What’s he like, your Zayn?” N1-A11’s smooth face was benign, artificial muscles pulling his bold features into an expression of vacant curiosity.

L1-AM shrugged – he’d noticed that Zayn did that a lot – and looked out at the city below. The sunbeams’ reflections off of the glass buildings were stunning in their clarity, the light showing up in cloudy beams in the hovering mist that shrouded the city. “He’s quiet. He’s bitter, and he’s frustrated and he’s just very, very sad.”

“Sadness can’t be cured,” N1-A11 began, quoting the manual that had been etched into their very beings. “It can only be eased.”

“I’m aware,” L1-AM sighed. “I just wonder if somehow I’m doing something wrong. Do you think there might be a malfunction in my programming?”

N1-A11’s lips pursed into contemplation. “You know what, L1-AM?” he began. “You are devoting far too many resources to your fruitless endeavors to empathize with humans. This cannot go on for much longer.”

Looking over at N1-A11, L1-AM let out a sigh that had been adopted from the humans, a sign of exasperation and defeat, apparently. He leaned forward on the balcony, peering out into the white marble streets with the silvery chrome vehicles racing silently along the stretches of stone. “Perhaps I should go in for reprogramming and diagnostics. Do you think that’s–”

“Liam!”

L1-AM looked over his shoulder, Zayn’s call ringing true in his ears. His charge was glaring expectantly at him from the kitchen inside, his keys dangling from slender, tan fingers. “Yes, Zayn?” he answered obediently.

Zayn rolled his eyes. “We’re going out to buy food and then go home. Remember?”

L1-AM was surprised by his own lack of awareness. He turned to N1-A11. “I must go, but we will talk again soon, I presume.”

N1-A11 nodded with a friendly smile. “Until next time, L1-AM. And remember to check with the diagnostic department about your…situation.”

L1-AM inclined his head. “Of course, N1-A11.”

*          *          *

“Finally quiet,” Zayn breathed, pressing his head against L1-AM’s chest. The two of them were sitting on the couch, a video on the screen in front of them.

“Indeed.” L1-AM’s dead eyes tracked the reporter on the screen, drinking in data about the war efforts in the Antarctic Circle. He didn’t protest when Zayn took his hand.

Zayn held the hand in his own two, thumbs tracing the lines of fingers that felt so real, that looked like they were a human’s.

“What’s this?”

Veins.

With a pulse. Barely noticeable, but there.

Zayn looked over at L1-AM. The robot seemed to know enough about Zayn to twist his face into one of confusion. “What do you mean, Zayn?” he asked calmly, hand delicately removing itself from Zayn’s grip to sit quietly in his lap, fingers folded. “What’s what?”

“You had a pulse. Robots don’t have pulses, Liam.”

“We do, to pump the oxygen to the brain. This is what happens to all humans, Zayn, like you.”

Zayn’s mind reeled. “But you’re not human. You’re a robot.”

L1-AM glanced down at his folded hands, not meeting Zayn’s eyes. “Not completely,” he said, the words almost lost on Zayn’s ears.

“And what do you mean by that? Do you have a brain that needs this?”

“All ARC-Bots do, Zayn,” L1-AM told him, as if he was simply discussing the weather or telling Zayn to take his medicine. “We have hearts, too. Well, not whole hearts, but approximations, if you will.”

“I won’t,” Zayn retorted.

L1-AM’s eyebrows rose. “We are made of the remains of humans like you, Zayn. I thought you knew that. It’s in the pamphlets you were given. I know you have them, too; they were on the bedside table for ages.”

Zayn laughed, but he knew in his heart that there was nothing to laugh about here. There was only pain, betrayal; confusion. “So what are you, Liam?”

"...The parts that make up my organic elements used to be parts of a human by the name of Liam Payne." L1-AM's brown eyes, empty and devoid of any type of human emotion, were haunted-looking and surrounded by pained wrinkles, glowing chunks of darkness that were alive with electricity but not with life.

"Parts?" Zayn was wary, looking at the bowed ARC-Bot with curiosity, trying to veil his fear.

L1-AM looked so amused, eyebrows raising and lips pulling into a faint smile. It was a rough approximation of regret. He had learned a lot from Zayn, it seemed. Every day he learned a new facial expression and applied it to the right situation. "Don't you know how ARC-Bots are created?"

Zayn shook his head in silence.

The robotic caretaker shook his head, lips pursed into a thin line. "A fully functional robot made entirely of...gadgets cannot be created without there being glitches. Think of one of us as a human using extensive prosthesis. Our makers, they find the dead and dying, those whose hearts have just stopped beating and the brain starts to fail from lack of oxygen, and they salvage what they can. And then they build a robot around those parts, creating the perfect human from one that was flawed.” He stopped; he studied Zayn intently. “Zayn?”

“You’re human.”

A frown appeared on L1-AM’s face. “No, Zayn. I just have the parts of one. I am not human. I am far from it. You are human, and you’ll probably always be human until you die. And then…” he shrugged, something that he’d taken to doing, as Zayn had noticed. “And then if you die naturally, then you will probably be taken too. They’ll get your brain and your heart and then you’ll be an ARC-Bot too. It’s simple, really.”

Zayn shook his head, feeling empty all over, numb and shocked and all that he could register was the fact that L1-AM was his future just as he was L1-AM’s past. He stood up, still shaking his head, suddenly registering that his cheeks were somehow streaked with tears. “No, Liam, it’s not simple. There’s nothing simple about any of this.”

“Shh,” L1-AM soothed, and he reached up to touch Zayn’s hand in comfort. Zayn jerked away from the touch. He wanted so badly for it to stop, for him to just grudgingly accept L1-AM's sweet ministrations and not think anything more of it. He wanted to forget that this robot was not a robot, and that there was a human somewhere in the metal and artificial consciousness. But he couldn't.

Because there was the warm hand, so close to life, reaching out to soothe his pain away like his mother had so long ago. He turned away.

"I'm sorry." The warm hand found his shoulder.

Zayn didn't look, didn't turn around. "No you're not," he whispered. "You can't be."

The hand moved. L1-AM's smooth footsteps faded away.

Zayn bowed his head, the throbbing of the phantom memory of his leg growing to that stabbing ache that matched the one in his chest. The house fell silent.

*          *          *

Zayn approached him after four days, his eyes deadened with hatred.

“Zayn,” L1-AM greeted.

“Oh, shut up,” Zayn snarled.

L1-AM did.

“You know, lust was something I could work with; you were – are – gorgeous, and there’s no harm in lusting after something that isn’t human.” Zayn smirked a bit, cold and furious. “And you know, I was fine with that. But then I began to feel, Liam. And that was the scariest thing. I began to have feelings for you, and I wanted you. And I couldn't have that. I can't. I don't want to feel anymore," Zayn whispered. "I want to be like you."

"You don't." L1-AM shook his head. "You don't understand what it's like. I do have a brain in here, but the parts that feel, the parts that can love and cherish and cry…they're gone. The creators probably put some gadget in there, a language database or something. Now there's just this emptiness, like I know what was there but I can't quite reach it. It's emptiness, Zayn, like a void that I can’t fill no matter how I’m programmed. I need to feel if that's what makes you happy, but I can't."

"Seems like we should just switch places," Zayn spat bitterly. “You want to feel, and I feel too fucking much.”

“Why are you so angry, Zayn?” L1-AM asked, because Zayn was never like this, was never so angry. Sadness, wariness, frustration; depression; those moods were common in the young man. But anger had never been there.

Zayn looked at him with angry eyes full of tears. “What I feel–” He stopped, shaking his head and bowing it, a droplet of salty water falling down to mar the orderly carpet with dampness. “What I feel isn’t normal.”

“Is the pain different, Zayn?” L1-AM reached out to touch Zayn, to try to make the hurt go away, but Zayn flinched away from his touch. “…Zayn?”

“Not that kind of pain, Liam,” Zayn sighed. “It’s pain here.” He pointed to his chest, right where his heart was.

L1-AM furrowed his brow. “Zayn, is there a problem with your heart?” He placed his hand on the spot that Zayn had been indicating, casting his sensors through Zayn’s body and coming back with no results. All was well within the war veteran.

Zayn laughed, and his eyes were dead and cold. “You know, Liam, it’s a hell of a thing, explaining feelings to robots. To dead things that used to be alive.”

“Used to be.” L1-AM stared at Zayn. “Zayn, to something like me, ‘used to be’ means nothing. To me, I have always been like this. I have always been dead. And I always will be.”

*          *          *

“Being dead is all the rage now, isn’t it, Liam?” Zayn didn’t wait for an answer. He laughed quietly; painfully. “Must be easy to not have to worry like we do.”

“I don’t understand what you mean, Zayn.”

Zayn waved him off. It didn’t matter anyway.

“Do you remember Liam Payne? From before L1-AM?”

L1-AM looked down at his hands. “I should probably be able to tell you that I do. This is something that was me. It still is me. But no, Zayn. I don’t remember anything. And if I do, there aren’t any concrete memories for me to tell you.”

Zayn stared up at the ceiling, ignoring the tears pricking at his eyes. “But you’re still human. You always will be. You’re just covered in all of the alterations in the world. You’re a project.”

“I suppose that is an apt description.”

“Do you remember what it was like to feel?”

“Even if I did, Zayn, I wouldn’t recognize it. There’s nothing to feel for.”

Zayn shut his eyes against the salty sting of tears. “Was Liam ever in love?”

L1-AM shifted beside him. “Perhaps,” he answered.

“Could _you_ ever be in love?”

“No.” L1-AM shook his head. “No, I couldn’t. I never will.”

Zayn nodded, taking the pain in his heart in stride. “I understand.” He stood, and the movement was mechanical and an aching reminder of the little bit of robot that was him now. Phantom pains crept up his leg and into his heart. “I’ll see you, Liam.”

L1-AM nodded. “Yes, I suppose I’ll be seeing you soon.”

The ARC-Bot was none the wiser.

He nearly ran to his room. The door slammed with a satisfying crack, the sound echoing in his already ringing ears.

Zayn had never known that this could hurt so badly.

He pounded the wall with his fist, smashing over and over and OVER and _god damn I need to feel something, need to let go_ and he smiled when the skin of his knuckles broke and blood spilled from ragged skin.

He needed to let go.

*          *          *

Life was a curious thing.

Perhaps, somewhere in the protected organic depths in L1-AM’s mechanical brain, there were memories of what it truly felt like to run and breathe and laugh and _feel_.

But what he did remember immediately was that life was such a fragile thing. After all, Liam Payne had died in a crash that had thrust his chest into the steering wheel of his car and stopped his heart in an instant. And he had been made to protect a very special man.

L1-AM stared down at the body before him. Dark, ruffled locks, full lips slightly parted, amber eyes half-open, heavy-lidded in what he knew was not slumber.

He knelt down, wincing when a gear pressed just a bit too hard at the heart that hung suspended in his metallic chest. It didn't matter, couldn't possibly because his purpose was to heal, to nurture and guard, and now this ward of his lay crumpled on his side on the floor.

The pain meds, the green bottles and red and yellow, lay spilled out across the floor, tablets that had fallen from a trembling hand when the remaining ones were chased down Zayn's throat by the burn of vodka.

No letter, no parting words; just a slip of paper crumpled in the hand that had frozen in place. The fingers were locked into a cage around the paper – _rigor mortis_ , L1-AM’s databanks supplied – and it took a certain amount of careful effort to remove the slip from the clutches of his charge.

He pressed the button on the inside of his elbow, staring down at it when it blinked repeatedly, flashing bright blue. Code Blue, a term embedded in his programming but one that he never thought he’d have to use.

They were on their way.

He looked down at the paper, reading the scrawled words over and over and over. Gears spun in overdrive to process the sentence that was Zayn Malik’s last statement.

_I want the numbness that you have._

The medical department as well as ARC-Bot officials arrived quickly, and they tried to get to the body, but L1-AM could not bring himself to move. He stayed with Zayn, holding his limp hand that had long since gone cold. He tried to understand.

In another time, in the world of a young man called Liam Payne, he would’ve felt grief. But that world was lost, just like the dreams of Liam, the dreams that he had of becoming a great army officer like his idol, Zayn Malik.

So L1-AM struggled to understand.

_I want the numbness that you have._

“You need to move,” another voice called to him. L1-AM turned his head to see Simon Cowell looking at him impatiently. “Let the men do their jobs.”

“No,” L1-AM replied shortly, and he crumpled the slip of paper tighter in his hand.

Cowell rolled his eyes in exasperation. “I didn’t think I’d have to do this, but you leave me no choice,” he told L1-AM as he walked over.

“What are you–” L1-AM began, but that was all that he could manage before Simon’s hand reached out with practiced ease and grabbed his neck.

“What’s your identification?” Cowell asked, bending down next to L1-AM.

L1-AM looked up at the dark-haired man who had pioneered the ARC-Bot movement, the man who had created a robot that could think on its own. He looked up at the man that was responsible for the feeling, for the feeling too hard and too little and for how it all snapped.

And in that moment, he hated him.

“Liam,” he whispered, remembering Zayn murmuring _you say your name like the numbers aren’t there; use the letters and let it flow, Liam, Liam, my Liam_. “My name is Liam.”

*          *          *

Power was a curious thing.

It could, alternatively, be called energy. It was life and it was ability and it was what made the world happen.

It could lie dormant, and it was potential. It could kill men and destroy worlds. And it could use a dead man to bring a machine to life.

Z4-YN stood.

He blinked.

He woke. 


End file.
